Do you have a special place in our natural world where, the moment you see it, no matter how many times you see it, you just have to smile and say, "Ahhh…ole Bubba upstairs sure had the holes of his canoe plugged when he contrived this little gem?"

Well, mine is that split second when I crest the apex of Ravalli Hill and cross over the foyer into the Mission Valley - to be sure, there's never been anything more stimulating to my eye, more warming to my heart or more capable of taking my breath than what is presented before me at that very second. And so, as is my custom whenever she is riding with me, I turned, looked at Her Nagness and said, "Welcome back to our, how green is our valley." Even though it sounds like one, it's never worded as a question…nay, more like a statement.

It was the 30th of July when we pulled into the driveway and we were hardly surprised to see all our friends and family standing there to greet us. It seemed as if the end of the driveway was the threshold for a wormhole in time. There they were, all standing in the same place, as they were when we pulled out two months earlier, only wearing different clothing. Well, that is everyone but Rich in that it appeared to me he hadn't moved nor changed any of his clothes. He said it was a statement of his resolve that we'd be back. It was a poignant yet pungent statement as Renee, his wife, later told me it took a week to clean the ring away from their bathtub. I think she was joshing but Ritchie sure cleaned up nice and the odd speech impediment he contracted cleared up, too.

I reasoned a serious possibility existed where the bus, in a fit of sheer reluctance, would undergo some form of a mechanical breakdown. For me, this was frightening because, as far as my brain is concerned, it goes on holiday whenever a vehicle requires any mechanical diagnostics. Don't get me wrong, I can take things apart, replace the broken thingies and put it back together - but I'm a buffoon when it comes to looking or listening to a motor. Perhaps, as a measure to relieve tension in their customers, auto repair shops should hire me to answer their phones…

Rrrriiinnnggg. "Good afternoon, Clarence Durflinger's Auto Repair. My name is Joe, how may I direct your call?"

"Ummmmm, yeah, Hi Joe, ummmm…my car's got a problem."

"The Hell you say…well, that's what I'm here for, to help little people through their problem and relieve tension. What seems to be the trouble? Ohh, what's your name, I like to know all our little people's names?"

 

"I'm…I'm Sam and…"

 

"Hi Saaammmm."

 

"Ummm, Hi. I don't know, it has a hard time starting and when it does it sounds terrible…almost like it's gonna fly apart."

 

"Shit, you would have to be calling with a motor problem, wouldn't you? Ok, first things first, is there enough air in the tires?"

 

"Huh!? What's that got to do…?"

 

"Oh Sam it has a lot, believe me! If there isn't enough air in the tires then any little rattle or pop will transfer through to the ground and sound much worse than it really is."

 

"Well, I'll be…I had no idea - yeah, I'm fairly sure there's enough air."

 

"Rats! Ok, does the noise sound like it's coming from inside the motor or around it?"

"From 'round it, I think."

 

"Ahh, now were getting' somewhere…Ok, start tearing out some of those thingies 'til the noise quits - it's a known fact you don't need half that shit anyway.

 

"I can't believe they'd have all that under there if it wasn't imp…"

 

"Sam, Sam, Sam…listen to reason. People like to eat and sleep indoors, right? Of course they're all gonna invent some gizmo they say's gotta go under your hood - that's why the price of cars is so damned ridiculous."

 

"Well, I don't think that prejudicially removing…"

 

"Huh? What was that…preju…preja, is that a word, Sam?

 

"Of course it's a word, you idiot. It means…ahhh, never mind are you gonna tell me anything I can rely on as being…"

 

"Nah, I guess I'm pretty much tapped out on this thing. Hell, I wouldn't advise bringing it here anyway. A couple months ago this place was a school bus factory and there wasn't a person in the joint who knew what they were doing. Say, while I got you here, d'ya need any bolts?"

 

Recognizing I had a distinct problem I turned my attention on finding a mechanic stupid enough to fly with me to Virginia and help drive the most dangerous bus on the planet back to Montana. I wasn't having much luck and asked my wife who she thought would be a good candidate. She thought for a moment and then asked, "Isn't Brad a mechanic?"

"Yeeaaaahhhh, my brother-in-law's stupid enough to…Oops, did I say that out loud? Thanks Hon! I'll give him a call."

Rrrrriinnnnggg. He always answers the phone the same way,

"What are you doing?"

 

"Hey, Bro…just calling to see how stu…ummm, say, what you got going on for the next four days. I need a mechanic real bad and I thought you'd like to go for a little airplane ride an..."

 

"Does this have anything to do with the bus?" He interrupted.

 

"Well, actually, yeah it does an…"

 

Click. Buzzz. "Hummmm, we got disconnected - rotten telephone company!"

 

Rrrrriinnnngggg. "What are you doing?"

 

"Sorry, guess we got disconnect…"

 

Click. Buzzzz.

 

Rrrrrriinnnnggg. "What are you doing?"

 

"Knock that off, hear me out dammit! Look, you only have to take two days off. We fly out on Friday, hop on the bus Saturday morning. With the two of us we drive like a bat out of Hell straight through and we'll be home Monday evening. You'll be back to work on Tuesday. How's that sound for a plan?"

 

"Sounds to me like your head's full of Rice Krispies. But, I suppose I could, when do we leave?

 

"September 14th. I'll make the reservations, thanks, Bro."

We landed at Dulles International Airport at 10:28 PM and were met at the gate by my Father. It was almost midnight when we got home and crash-landed in our beds to prepare for the coming morning. We had lots to do and the biggest immediate obstacle was to drive into Culpeper to fill the tank. Now, I don't know how it happened or what caused it to happen, but somewhere between May 12th when I arrived in Virginia with the bus and September 15th when we arrived to take the bus, I forgot which tank was the broken one. But, that didn't stop me from getting on the phone to find that Southern States peddled propane and that they closed at noon. On the way over I rattled my Rice Krispies on which tank was which and pulled into their parking lot.

"Brad, be a good chap and go inside and ask the nice attendant to come out and fill us up. There's a good fellow."

A couple seconds later he walks out shaking his head and proceeds to tell me they can't fill the bus. "Huh," I asked incredulously, "Why the hell not, there's a huge propane tank sitting right there!" I pointed with an outstretched arm. All Brad could understand was that they couldn't fill the bus so then I went inside to find out for myself.

"Excuse me, but my brother-in-law was just in here asking about getting our bus filled with propane and I'd like to know why you can't."

"We can't fill it because if it's used as a motor fuel we have to do all sorts of paper work that deals with the extra taxes and we hate paper work and…"

It was then I got a bright idea and reasoned with the current necessity - what's wrong with a little light blue lie? "I'm sorry, my brother-in-law should have told you, it isn't a motor fuel it's for our heater and stove we have inside. Here, walk outside with me and I'll show you."

Walking by the bus I continued with what was now changing it's hue and becoming a downright purple lie by pointing, "You see," I smiled, "This tank here is for the motor and…" We walked to the other side of the bus, "This one over here is for the stove and heater. See?" I batted my eyes as if I believed every word of the asinine tale myself.

"Ah, Ok then, just as long as it isn't a motor fuel we hate paper work and it's against the law here in Virginia to use it and not pay road taxes - maybe in a cupla other states, too. You reckon they hate paper work as much as we do…?"

"Look, can we just pump the propane, please? Thank you," and I tucked my hands in my pockets as I watched him attach the filler nozzle to the tank.

Imagine my surprise when nothing happened. It wouldn't fill because I had parked the damn bus on the wrong side thinking it was the other tank that was broke! You'd think that after having drove the stinking thing twenty-five hundred miles and stopping 10 different times to fill the tank that I'd remember which one it was, wouldn't you? Ordinarily, I'd agree with you but I've since found out that a brain fart is a terrible thing to experience - especially when it happens while you're interacting with someone. My perfectly homespun little indigo lie was unraveling so fast I couldn't stop it.

"It won't accept any propane," He said, "Are you sure it ain't already full?"

I seriously thought about saying, "Oh, my gosh! Ya know, I'm all messed up here, it's the other tank. Brad! I thought you told me that this tank was the…" But, I knew the jig was up so we drove off in search of another propane peddler and a more believable story in case some other tax righteous bastard faced off with us. We eventually found one on the complete opposite side of town and managed to get the tank filled without having to reach into the paint bucket for a different colored lie.

Back at the house Brad and I loaded up some other tools I'd picked up over the years that had been sitting there, waiting for an opportunity to be transported to Montana. And, at 10:45 AM we said goodbye to our folks, drove out of the driveway, turned west on Route 522 and began the first mile of what I anticipated was going to be a laugh-a-minute journey.

At mile 25 all the laughs stopped and things turned right serious.

Continue to CHAPTER ELEVEN